TORCH (8 page)

“Maybe you should go back to the doctor,” Regan say. “I’ll go with you.”

I shake my head. “Bad dreams are normal for... for someone in my situation. At least, that’s what the counselor at my old school said.”

“But you don’t seem like yourself lately,” she says.

I’m not myself and obviously I’m doing a poor job of hiding it. “I just need to have a little fun,” I say. “And luckily I have you and Operation Destiny to help.”

Rooting around in her purse as an excuse not to look at me, Regan asks, “Have you heard from Flynn lately?”

“He called. And offered to visit. I said no.”

She stops rooting to give me a disappointed look. “Why? You said you need to have fun.”

I laugh. “Flynn’s more fun for you than me. I don’t want a big brother replacement. Regan, he’s too old for you.”

“I know. But we’re talking about fun.”

"Speaking of fun," a voice behind us says, "you two are seriously ruining mine."

Bianca seems to share Regan’s goal of trying out for every club the school offers. She leans against the wall on the opposite side of the hall, and her followers arrange themselves around her. Last year’s yearbook is under her arm. I flipped through Regan’s copy and found Bianca featured on every other page. I guess she’s going for full saturation.

“Glad to be of service," I say.

"I'm sure you are," Bianca says. "I hear you're very helpful when it comes to reporting fires."

Good news travels fast when your dad’s the chief of police. But I don’t plan to confirm or deny.

Regan is staring at me, confused, and Bianca notices. “What, you didn’t tell Chunky? What kind of friend are you?”

I stare at Bianca. “Your life must suck when all you want to do is make everyone around you miserable.”

“Untrue,” she says. “I want to help you. In fact, here's a tip:  you might want to prepare yourself for a visit from a cop."

My stomach lurches. “A cop? Why?”

“Apparently you told the operator someone set the fire deliberately. So you must have information that can help track down an arsonist.” She points a pen at me. “Did you know there have been five unexplained fires since June?”

“Most fires never get explained,” Regan says, proving how good a friend she is by defending me even when she knows I’ve withheld information.

“But this one
can
be explained,” Bianca says. “Nix called to report a church fire that was deliberately set, right around the time someone saw her dad leaving his work.” She smiles as my face drops.” What can I say? The walls in my Dad's office are pretty thin."

“My dad isn’t setting fires,” I snap. “And if you keep saying stuff like that, I’m going to talk to the principal.”

“Go ahead,” she says. “Bob McCabe and my dad are pals.”

“Then he’ll back my bid for an ‘Eastfield Bully of the Year’ award. You’ll get a full page spread in the yearbook.”

Bianca shoves herself off the wall and takes a couple of steps toward me. I hope I’m the only one who notices that the corner of her yearbook is smoking.

Leaning into my face, she says, "You need to learn when to shut your mouth." She jabs me with a finger and jump backs. “Ouch... Jeez. You shocked me.”

“You know what?” Regan says, tugging on my sleeve. “I can already tell yearbook committee isn’t my thing. Let’s go.”

I follow her down the hall and once we’re out of earshot, I explain about my dream and the 911 call. “I was going to tell you, Regan, but it was embarrassing. I had no clue where it was, or if it was even real.”

“But it
was
real,” she says, her eyes serious.

“Looks that way. But how was I to know?”

“It’s so weird,” she says. “There’s no way your dad is starting fires.”

I sigh. “Just between you and me... I hope?” She nods, and I continue. “My dad has been drinking more. I don’t think it’s a problem or anything, but I’m worried. I hope he isn’t setting fires in churches or anywhere else.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Regan says. “It’s against everything he stands for.”

“Can you talk to your dad about what Bianca said?” I ask. “My dad’s having a tough time even without hearing the chief of police is gunning for him.”

“Sure,” Regan says. When we reach the stairs, she turns and meets my eyes. “Is there anything else I should know? Before I talk to my dad?”

Easing my sleeve over the burn on my hand, I shake my head. “Just tell him I’m having trouble getting over what happened to Nate. No more crazy calls after bad dreams, I promise.”

“You know you can talk to me anytime, right?”

“I know you’re the best friend anyone could have.”I throw my good arm over her shoulder. “Let’s find another club to join. There’s gotta be something Bianca hates.”

I
don’t even think about calling anyone after the next dream. Instead, I dress quickly and head out to the Jeep. This time the location is no mystery. The image I saw of a smoking stack of rubber means the only possible site is Leo’s Tires out on Miner Road.

It’s been six days since the fire at St. Paul’s, and the warehouse fire was nine days before that. The arsonist is picking up speed.

Before heading to Leo’s, I drive down the cobbled stoned main street to pass Hanover Enterprises, where Dad is assigned this week. The security company he works for sends him to different locations and I’ve taken to asking, as casually as possible, where he’s working each day.

Circling Hanover’s, I see that Dad’s pick-up is not in the parking lot.

I spend the eight minute drive, considering all the possible reasons Dad could be missing in the middle of his shift. It’s not like he could be running errands at one a.m., and he always takes his lunch with him. Maybe Uncle Rick texts when there’s a call because he knows Dad’s a fire-junkie and values his advice.

Or maybe Dad has another way of knowing there’s a fire, like I do.

I refuse to believe he’s at the site because he set the fire, although I can understand why he might want to. Starting paper on fire in the sink gave me enough peace to sleep. Burning down a church might help Dad forget Nate for six days. Assuming he’s had this ability since he was my age, he obviously mastered it well enough to work his way up to fire captain. If he’s starting random fires now, it means he’s lost control, and he must know it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught. It would destroy his career and reputation, and if anyone happened to get hurt in a fire he set, he’d end up in jail. Is he so depressed he’d risk leaving Graham and me to fend for ourselves?

The thought makes me grip the wheel tighter and press down on the accelerator.

At first, I mistake the smoke for fog, because there’s so much of it and it’s hanging so low. The screaming sirens are well ahead of me. It sounds like a lot of trucks. They’ve called in reinforcements from neighboring counties, which means it’s either a really big fire, or they’re planning to evacuate the neighborhood. Depending on how the winds push the toxic plumes, fires like this can be really dangerous.

I drive around until I find a spot where I can see, and hopefully not be seen. After pulling a three-sixty to make sure there’s no one in the vicinity, I get out of the car and sit on the hood, as before.

There is no beauty in this fire. The flames are low and sporadic, although they are doing enough damage to cause smoke to billow from several locations in the massive pile of tires behind Leo’s. Even from here, the faint stench of burning rubber reaches my nostrils.

A damp, cool breeze makes me zip up my hoodie. The chill only gets worse, and I realize it’s coming from inside me. A cold rush to my head sinks like thick icy sludge to my stomach.

Kai Seaver. It has to be.

Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone and keys, ready to make a getaway before he sees me.

Too late.

“Leaving so soon?” he says, coming out of the darkness and hopping onto the hood beside me.

The fire at Leo’s isn’t throwing off much light, so I direct my phone flashlight at Kai. As before, he’s completely soaked. His track pants are sending rivulets down the hood of my car, and his T-shirt is transparent. I wonder if he wears white on purpose.

My phone light obviously lingers too long, because he says, “Want a better look?” He pulls off his sodden T-shirt and lets it hit the hood with a wet slap.

I turn off the light, embarrassed. He must think he’s pretty hot, or I’m pretty desperate. Or both.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I need a good description for the cops. The scar on your shoulder should tag you.”

He unlaces his shoes, pulls them off with loud suction noises, and drops them to the ground, one by one. Then he peels off his socks. “You’re not going to call the cops.”

“I will if you keep stripping.”

“You won’t.” Leaning on his elbows, he lifts his butt and yanks off his sodden track pants.

“Oh my god,” I say. “You’re disgusting. Get off my car.”

He laughs, but there’s no real humor in his voice. “I think you’d let me stand on my head naked if it meant I’d talk to you.”

“Are you kidding me? Exactly how huge is your ego?”

“Just average. But I know I have something you want.”

“All I want from you is to get off my car and leave me alone.”

“You want something,” he says. “I can feel it coming off you in waves.”

I flick the phone light at him. “You’re the one giving off waves.” I point to the puddle forming around him. “You’re leaking.”

He smirks. “I'm just excited to see you.”

Okay, that’s it. If I prolong this discussion, his briefs might come off, too. “I'm leaving before you rust out my car.” I slide off the hood and back toward the driver’s door.

He jumps down and follows me. I yank on the handle, but he puts a hand on the door to hold it closed. Water drips down his forearm to his elbow and onto my hand. This time I can tell it stings rather than tingles. I try to wipe it off but the palm of my other hand stings, too. “Ow. Are you sweating acid?”

He stares at me, his eyes pools of black. “If you want answers, drive me down the hill to my car.”

I'm desperate for answers, but not so desperate that I'll let some psycho into the Jeep. “No way.”

“Suit yourself."

He moves his hand, and I jump into the Jeep and lock the door.

Kai takes his time putting his wet sneakers back on, and then collects his wet clothes off my hood. He walks a few hundred feet down the slope and despite my reservations, I start up the Jeep and follow him. Even with my low beams on, I can still see his cut body perfectly. I’ve seen a lot of very fit guys in skimpy swimsuits and Kai’s beats them all. Although the sneakers seriously reduce the sex appeal.

He turns, and when I see his lips moving I roll down the window.

“Stop it,” he calls.

“Stop
what
?”

“Stop staring at me.”

How does he know? He
doesn’t
know. He’s just being a jerk. So I say, “I’ll close my eyes and run you over if that’s what you want.”

“I mean it,” he says. “I can’t turn off the taps if you’re staring at me like that. You’re frying me.”

Well, it’s nice to know the discomfort is mutual. I just turned the heat on in the Jeep to offset the cold front Kai’s creating.

When we get to his beat up Cavalier, Kai opens the trunk and pulls out a stack of clothes. I keep the headlights on, but try not to watch as he towels himself down. Then he walks around to the dark side of the car to get dressed, coming back a minute later wearing jeans, another white T-shirt and dry sneakers. Pulling on a jacket, he slides behind the wheel of his car and signals me to follow.

Leaning out the window, he calls, “Cut your lights in about a quarter of a mile. Unless you want to stop and say hi to your dad.”

Kai drives about 10 miles outside of Rosewood before finally signaling and turning into the parking lot of a truck stop called Arnie’s. He parks around the side, and I pull in beside him and get out.

“Not too close,” he says. His forehead is beading up with water, and he swipes at it with his sleeve.

Clutching my coat hoodie a little closer, I follow him into Arnie’s and take a seat in the darkened corner Kai points out. He goes to the counter to order, and then joins me. After sliding a cup of coffee across the table to me, he opens a can of soda and pours it into a tall glass of ice cubes.